


L'Appel du Vide

by Violsva



Series: Arte Regendus [8]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Colonialism, Disregard for Personal Safety, Gen, M/M, More angst, Paranoia, Post-Reichenbach, Recreational Drug Use, The Final Problem, The Hiatus, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:24:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes' afterlife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Appel du Vide

After Watson hurried back to Meiringen, after the few eternal seconds when I stared at the Falls and did not let myself turn to watch him go, it all happened very quickly. I had known what was coming for weeks before, of course. As Watson and I had wandered through Switzerland I had felt at almost all times that I was walking a few steps behind myself, observing all that happened but divorced from it, waiting. I had wished, then, for clarity, for a proper appreciation of my circumstances, which were not, after all, so very bad, then.

Now they were, and the company significantly worse.

Professor Moriarty stepped quite calmly onto the ledge a few metres away from me. “Professor,” I said. “How kind of you to join me. Alone, I hope?”

“Mr. Holmes,” said the man. “I thought it would not be quite sporting, as you might say, to do otherwise. Do not take it as a disparagement of your talents.”

Thus understanding each other, we talked for some time as if we were in a London drawing-room – though the content of our conversation would perhaps have been out of place. I heard all his words quite clearly, understood them, admired as I deplored his peculiar genius; but all the time I was wondering whether I dared ask.

When I realized that, in fact, it really no longer mattered, I interrupted him, much to his annoyance. “Would you mind,” I said, “if I took the opportunity to write a short note, to a friend?”

Once he realized the implications of what I was saying, his pique vanished. “But of course,” he said, smiling. “Go right ahead. And then, I think, we may settle matters.”

I had no objection. I wrote, comforting myself that my last words at least should be to Watson, and ones I entirely meant. I then took a moment to prepare myself – I would not have this be for nothing. Then I turned to the Professor, and nodded.

After that it went very quickly indeed. We advanced to the end of the ledge, each marking every one of the other’s movements, making the occasional quick feint. I was far more skilled in such matters than he, I could tell, but he had the advantage of weight, and was not utterly bereft of training. And then he rushed me and there was no time for thought.

Even when the mind has entirely made itself up upon a matter, the body may rebel against such tyranny. And so I ducked away from him and twisted him as I went, and he stumbled over the edge, flailed for a moment, and fell. Yet I remained above.

I stood watching his fall in utter shock. My detective mind whirred away in its own little corner, telling me that the professor’s death was not the end of my troubles, and that his men would still be after me. But I could not believe that I was still alive at all, and this great enemy not. I had expected, planned, almost intended, that this would be my last work.

For an insane half-second, I considered falling after him. I don’t know what stopped me; certainly not that it was a sin, for my soul, if any, was black enough that the method of its going was unlikely to change where it went. But then, I don’t know why I considered it in the first place.

Nor am I certain why I was so very quick to throw myself up the face of the cliff after that moment had passed. But some energy drove me to quit the path and climb with no regard for the danger, and I barely thought about the drop below me save for occasional moments of shock and horror at the remembered sight of Moriarty flailing in the air.

Halfway up the cliff I found that my instinct had been a good one. As I put my weight on a rock my grip slipped and I fell back a foot, and just then a bullet struck the cliff just above me, though I had not heard a shot. Moran. I hoped I should not have to reach the top of the cliff to remove myself from his line of sight.

And so I found myself balanced on the barest ledge, pressed against the cliff wall, for hours. It was no safe resting place – I had no idea where the Colonel was, or whether he was moving to find a better angle. But he did not shoot my Watson when he returned, which might well mean he had gone.

For of course Watson had realized, and returned. I kept my eyes shut, but could not shut my ears. His cries seemed very distant, though, covered as they were by the rush of the great Falls, like an image seen behind waxed paper.

I had been thinking, as I lay there resting. I knew very well that Moriarty’s men would be after me. Now that I was out of sight, Watson would assume – I would certainly be thought dead by the world. It would be the easiest course to continue this.

Moran might have been Moriarty’s most trusted man, but he had no charge over the rest of the organization. If I were known to be dead, there would be no reason for them to believe me alive merely because he believed it. My obituary would discourage and confuse them, while allowing me freedom of movement without my presence being reported.

Watson had shouted himself hoarse and fallen against the rock wall with a slight thump. I might have heard faint gasps and perhaps sobs under the constant noise of the water. I could not think about it.

Up the cliff did not look like a likely prospect, but shortly Watson would go and fetch the police, and should I wish to go down from my ledge I would have to wait until the official investigation had ended. It would take at least two hours for any officials to arrive, during which time I could not add to the footprints on the ground.

I leaned back enough to look at the cliff face. It was not utterly sheer, but I did not like the thought of climbing it at all. It would have to be soon, or there was always the chance that Moran would come back from wherever he had gone, or find his own way up to the top and wait for me.

A deep gasp of air from below. Another possible future occurred to me. Surely not. He wouldn’t. But I could not look.

There might have been a metallic noise, and I glanced down quickly, though I had not intended to see him again. Watson had found the letter under my cigarette case. I stared back up at the grey sky. He could not, now, now that he had seen the charges I had given him. He would not. He was married.

I could not climb the cliff until he was gone. I also felt I could not stay there and listen, but that I could not avoid.

At last I glanced down and saw him walking slowly away. He had not. My breathing was faster than it should be. I lay there for some time more.

I had thought I was at the end of things, and now ... now I was at a different end. I felt incapable of moving, but I forced myself to a stand, braced against the rock. Then I reached up, mechanically, and felt my hand settle into a slight crack in the cliff face.

It was a long and difficult climb, but the main emotion I felt was dullness. Below me was a nightmare, and above me uncertainty. In between was merely the search for crevices and a carefulness that seemed utterly unnecessary. But I did not slip at all, this time. My boots had not been made for this work, and I depended almost entirely on my hands. At the top it was a little harder, trying to find a way to lever myself over the edge. At last I grabbed a handful of long grass and pulled myself up with that. It uprooted in my hand, but I made a second grab at the ground, and though I didn’t care whether I fell forwards or back, it turned out to be forwards.

I did not pause there; that would be the act of a madman. I stayed in a crouch as I scanned the area, and then ran. Meiringen was to the north; I went west, and a little south. Evening turned into proper night, and then all light faded, and I kept going. The sky was clouded over, but I barely cared that I didn’t know my way.

In the morning, though the sky was still dark with clouds, I had easier going, and a more clear direction. Before noon I was in Grindelwald, which even in that season had enough tourists to make my arrival unsurprising.

I had sufficient money, none of it English – I had taken to carrying most of my possessions upon my person while we travelled the Continent. I was dressed and equipped for moderate hiking, and there was no sign in my appearance that I had done anything more. I found an inn, ate lunch, and slept for eighteen hours.

It was less difficult than I had feared to make it to Italy, and I saw no signs of pursuit. After buying cosmetics in Milan, each time I changed trains I changed identities as well. I did not stay longer than a few hours anywhere, and when I slept I did it sitting up. When I arrived in Florence I decided it would do well enough as a starting point. I did not find a hotel, but rented a shabby little room – the action of a man planning on staying for a long while, which I did not intend to do. If I was eventually followed, better to confuse them, and also to avoid the obvious.

But I would need funds shortly. I attempted to make money by the violin, though that would not nearly be enough. It was not _my_ violin – that was back in London, and unobtainable. But I found a serviceable one in a pawnshop, and it would be well to have a legitimate source of income while I wired Mycroft for funds. I should have liked to see his face when he received the telegram.

I began another wire after sending that one, but after several attempts tore up the forms and burned the shreds. A letter met the same fate – that would be even more dangerous.

I watched the news from England carefully while I was there. The trials of Moriarty’s associates continued. It was not so well as it could have been – too many had been allowed to escape entirely, and a few were acquitted without my evidence. My duty had been left undone by this flight to the Continent, though it had been necessary to cut the leader off from the rest of them. But I would have preferred had any but those been allowed to escape. They were not only Moriarty’s most loyal men, which was bad enough, but men with personal grudges against me. And of course Colonel Moran, who certainly felt the same, had not even been charged.

I would need, eventually, to prevent them from any further action. But I did not have the resources for that yet – I could not expect to face any of these men and win in my present state unless I could somehow catch them alone. And I would have no way of telling if they were alone.

Calculating the time it would take them to search for me, assuming they listened to Moran, I was not optimistic; they were, of course, the brightest of Moriarty’s men. But I had little to do in Florence, so I told myself it would be an interesting diversion.

I needed one. My nerves were rather stretched with the waiting, and as I waited I had nothing to do but pretend to be a good second violinist for a small chamber orchestra. I am not a good second violinist; I don’t take well to direction, nor to playing the background. It took far more concentration than it should have, and I was not well equipped to concentrate on anything at the time. Every other day I began to a letter in spite of my resolution, and then immediately burned each one after only a few sentences. I watched my back everywhere, as I had had to do in London just before leaving.

I learned the strength of Moriarty’s European organization in June. I was still waiting on Mycroft’s funds – the transfer would of course require a byzantine level of obfuscation, and something seemed to have gone wrong in London. Or, of course, Mycroft was being deliberately slow in an attempt to coax me home. I would have gladly gone, were it possible.

So I was dependent on the exchange rates and my playing. I tried to keep a reserve, enough to buy a third class ticket out of Italy. My rent was weekly, and I was lucky I didn’t need to eat much.

More lucky than I had thought; one afternoon on the way back from the bank where I was creating a false identity to receive the funds, I felt a strong discomfort with my surroundings, with no clear idea why.

I crossed the street and continued on for two streets and around a corner. Then I crossed it again. Someone crossed twenty seconds after me, both times. I stopped at a café, considered the pastries, and left again. A man entered shortly after I did, and left, as I had, without purchasing anything. At the next café I asked after espresso and left when I heard the price. There was a man considering the window display in the next shop. Shortly after I passed he walked past it without going in.

The next place I aimed for was a chemist’s shop. I waited for my follower and then bought a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

Then I wove around the city, stepping in and out of omnibuses and cabs, using back entrances and alleyways, and in general employing every ounce of deviousness I could pull from my long memories of chasing others. At last I found myself at a bar near a train station.

I paid a tall, skinny, long-nosed Frenchman to bleach his hair before getting on a train for Gascony. I saw him to the station, then stepped on an omnibus, where I changed my hat and jacket. I took that to a telegraph office near a hiring stable, and sent Mycroft the message “Leaving at once STOP Hold payment until word.” I did not have time for a particularly complicated code, but it was generic and uninformative enough to be safe. I caught an omnibus going at right angles to the first, then from that one made my way onto a third, and arrived back at the train station in time to buy the first in a series of tickets leading eventually, I hoped, to Moscow. My Russian was execrable, but they spoke French in Russia.

In Russia I ended up sleeping in the apartment of an attractive blond. I would not have taken him up on his offer had I been able to stay in Florence long enough to collect Mycroft’s funds. But he was friendly, and intelligent, and knowledgeable, and surprisingly skilled, good enough to move me to speech, which is thankfully rare.

“Ye- _Oui, oui ... c’est si bon, oh, plus vite,_ oh, my God – oh, yes, there, God, J- !”

I had the sense to clamp my mouth shut then, though I was badly shaken by my slip. Afterwards, he asked casually, “ _Dans quelle langue était-ce?_ ”

“ _Allemande,_ ” I said. “ _J'étais en Allemagne il ya trois mois._ ” The second sentence was technically true.

“Ah,” was all he said.

I did not repeat the experiment.

In Russia I was at last able to collect sufficient funds to keep me for some time. I found one of Moriarty’s agents in Moscow, and shut down his little ring of followers quite quickly. Information gained in the process ought to have led me to France from there, and I was making plans to that effect when I discovered through sheer luck that Moran had heard of my work and followed me. I attempted to corner him, failed, and took the most convenient boat at once. I went by river, rather than by train, since it provided more options for escape or sudden changes of transport. My command of the language, luckily, had been forced to improve.

From Moscow I went, overland and with great difficulty, to Tibet. It was not my intended destination, but Moran was far too damned persistent. I knew, however, that he was not welcome in any part of the Indian subcontinent after the excesses of his military career.

I fled through the vast expanses England and Russia had fought over in the wars that had wounded W – many soldiers, and then to Lahore, and then, when that proved too public, further east. I found the cold rather trying, but one grows used to it.

There was one small problem, however.

The coca plant is native to South America, where the natives have used its leaves for various purposes since before white men ever arrived. Upon its arrival in Europe, it was first distilled into a medicinal wine, and then subjected to various chemical processes to extract the active essence, cocaine. This substance’s numerous medical uses led to its current availability in any well-stocked chemist’s shop in Europe.

This is not the case in Asia.

I first began to run short in Perovsk, having acquired enough funds to pack quite well when I left Moscow. Perovsk is a strange place, flat as a tabletop, surrounded by queer ancient monuments. They drink a sort of fermented milk called _koumiss_ , which I had had quite enough of by then, and occasionally smoke hashish, which has never interested me. I rationed the cocaine for a while, but halfway to Lahore I was quite out.

I suppose it was lucky that I went through the cravings when there was no chance whatsoever of acquiring any more of the damned substance. The blackness and weakness of both body and spirit I went through then, though, would have been easier to bear in civilization than in those vast wastelands. Certainly the physical symptoms would have been easier to manage anywhere other than a boat. I would have liked, at the very least, for there to have been someone with me to recognize what I was doing, someone with a medical understanding of the matter, and knowledge of my mind. Instead I stayed as private as I could on the boats down the rivers and kept utterly to myself.

In Lahore I was badly tempted to simply buy more, thinking I could probably find it there; but then I was forced to leave very suddenly, so it was as well that I did not. It is hard to find cocaine in Tibet.

But Moran was barred from there, and as I went further in white men in general became more and more rare. When I had seen none for a week I adjusted my clothing with the help of my guide, a man named Aphur, and spoke as little as possible as I worked to improve my Tibetan. It was not a good disguise, but it and the local guidance served well enough to get me to Lhasa.

I have never liked relying on anyone but myself, but at times it is necessary. The Himalayas will not allow for arrogance. And so I placed myself in the hands of my companion, and thankfully was not disappointed. I made detailed notes of the country and its people, keeping my notebooks in my coat for added warmth. It was likely useless knowledge in England, but it might be of interest to an Englishman, and I must have something to do with my time.

It turned out to be rather a lot of time. I had not intended to stay as long as I did. We made slow progress – I had first arrived in the middle of winter. And Tibet is not so easy to get out of, once you have gotten into it. The authorities, of course, would gladly have escorted me straight out of the country had they known my true identity. They did in fact find me at one point, at which time I discovered that all the usual routes for leaving the country were being watched by Moran’s or possibly Moriarty’s men.

I ended up, after Aphur was injured, attempting to flee both groups alone in the middle of the night through unfamiliar territory. It was futile to expect to escape both, but I am glad that it was Moran’s men who caught up to me at last rather than the Tibetan officials, who were after all only doing their religious duty. I felt less guilt about disposing of the criminals.

Of course I did not escape them completely unscathed. One knife caught me early on, and stabbed hard enough into my thigh that it passed through the layers I wore. I could ignore it, for a time, in the urgency of the fight. As I was finishing the last man, though, and perhaps flagging slightly after the exertion, he aimed at the darker patch on my leg and caught it a second time. I nearly fell over, but I shoved myself forward as I did and caught him under me. When I staggered to my feet he was unconscious, and all five of them would likely freeze unless they were discovered shortly.

Night in the mountains was below freezing. I got as far away as I could in the circumstances and then found myself a makeshift shelter. I still had my pack, though I had had to drag it the last mile, and this provided me with the basic necessities for medical treatment.

I had little light for an examination of the cut, but what I could see was not reassuring. It seemed deep, though I couldn’t tell for sure. I couldn’t tell if it had hit any important muscles or vessels, apart from the evidence of my pain and the swelling blood. I had no idea if it would be inevitably fatal – surely that would have happened already? – or crippling, or merely if it was not properly treated. I didn’t know what exactly proper treatment would be.

I had always assumed that I would die early, in my work, and the events of the past year had only made that seem more certain. But now ... after years of believing I did not truly care whether I lived or died, I found that I cared deeply. And I realized, perhaps for the first time, the difference between the two.

I grabbed for a cloth and pressed it hard over my wound. That much I knew. I bound it in place with another, then added another, tighter one when the first reddened alarmingly quickly. I had no spirits or carbolic to stop infection. I had no knowledge of how to stitch it. I had nothing, in fact, except memories and half-recalled lectures.

The second cloth did not bleed through – good, I had run out of cloth. I hoped the cold would retard infection. Beyond that, all I could do was sleep, and eat a little more of my rationed food than I otherwise would have.

After that things were rather unpleasant for a while. It was, at least, spring by then, and I managed to get myself to a village where I found more supplies and another guide. I told that man that I was on a pilgrimage and had been mistaken for a Westerner because of my light eyes. I doubt he believed it.

Not trusting someone with your history will not prevent you from trusting them in general, however. I was exhausted of caring for people, but one cannot escape it. Chodak was skillful and practical, and I respected him for it. I have always been lucky in my companions, far luckier than I deserve. This one, at least, left me by mutual choice rather than force, and only once I was no longer in need of him.

We did, at last, make it to Lhasa, where I managed to obtain information on routes out of the country. I was uncertain of dates by that time, but I believe it was in the early spring of 1893. I knew better than to stay in the city long, but even a week was long enough to completely obliterate any trail. Anyone following me would look at the typical routes the Tibetan authorities sent trespassing Westerners away by, and once I knew those to avoid them I left before I was thrown out.

Upon exiting the country I collected my notes into a highly romanticized account of my time in the mountains, published under the name Sigerson, and the proceeds from that took me to Arabia by way of a boat from Chittagong. It sold far better than any of my more scientific works, as I have observed in other cases of sensationalist fiction.

Boats are vastly soothing to a fear of persecution. Once one knows all the other human beings on one’s vessel, one is safe; there is nothing more to be done but wait. One may, of course, drown, but that would be a capricious whim of the universe utterly outside of one’s control, and so not something to be worried over.

I thought then that I had lost my pursuers, and once I had arrived in Aden I wired Mycroft for information on the whereabouts of the men I actually wanted. There were only Moran and one other, now. The other, it appeared, was in Egypt at the moment – God alone knew what he was doing there, but at least it was close.

Coming back from the telegraph office to my inadequate lodgings I picked up a follower. I thought him a pickpocket, lost him quickly, and paid no further attention to him.

I began to make plans for travel to Egypt. I thought, by now, that I might be able to do so relatively openly, though of course under a different name, but I kept my visits to shipping agencies and consulates as quiet as possible nonetheless. Even so, however, I continually found myself being followed. Far too often to put it down as merely local criminal activity.

I was known, somehow. I realized my mistake extremely quickly, and so I made plans to correct it. Finding an inaccessible stopping point had worked before, and so I decided to try it again. This was just as men were leaving Aden for the Muslim pilgrimage, and so I reinvented myself again, this time as a _mustati_ , and attached myself to one of these groups, expecting it to be no different from pretending to be Tibetan. I wished my Arabic was better, but there were such a variety of dialects spoken among the pilgrims that it went largely unnoticed.

As it turned out, Tibet had been one thing; Mecca was quite another. Every second I was there I knew that I was intruding. Lhasa was a centre of religion, certainly, but also of culture, learning, and commerce. Mecca had little purpose other than its religious one, and it is an unimaginably lonely feeling to be surrounded by thousands of people, people of every imaginable type and race, at the height of their devotion to a cause you do not share. I left after two days for Egypt. Luckily, this was too early for any attempt on the organization’s part to watch the exits. Given the sheer number of people there, I don’t think they would have succeeded anyway.

I wanted nothing more than to go home. But I had been right. Someone was using Moriarty’s techniques to form their own network in Egypt and the surrounding area, and it had been he who had directed his men to follow me. Moriarty’s web had been wider than I had thought, and my appearance was too well known among its remains.

I investigated the matter as thoroughly as I could, given my limited knowledge of the area, and got news of a related organization in Khartoum, run by the man I was looking for.

Khartoum was still rebuilding from the Siege nearly ten years earlier, and the native _Mahdiyah_ government founded then was struggling financially. Mycroft, of course, would want to know this. I dealt with the immediate problem and then returned to Egypt. The men had been supported by the Khalifa himself. Even after the death of their leader there was no way of ending the matter completely, especially in my position, which was so precarious that I thought it better to leave the country entirely before sending any telegrams.

When that was finished, I realized that to the best of my knowledge only Moran was left. I wired Mycroft regarding the man and received only the reply “Highly respected though cheating at cards STOP Take no precipitate action.” I sent back “Kindly investigate further” and went to France in the meanwhile. I took a berth as a general labourer on a ship, one that carried three or four passengers and a large amount of not-quite-legal baggage and was therefore prepared to accept even so untrained a seaman as I.

Slightly past Sicily I discovered that I had picked up a follower in Africa, and that he was on the boat with me.

I had noticed the man at first by his long glances at me. The reactions of the other passengers and seamen to my presence indicated that I did not stand out in general, so the problem was not with my disguise. I had begun to run through the possible reasons for his interest when I caught sight of his profile and recognized it. There was a distinct family resemblance between him and one of the men I had killed in Khartoum.

Yet another on my trail. I was so damned tired of this persecution – I had crossed half the globe, and still every time I shook one off another appeared. This man was clearly motivated solely by a wish for vengeance, which made him sloppy. Good – his loyalties were entirely to his family and his dead master; he might not have informed anyone else. He might not even know who I was.

The dominant emotion I felt at his presence was not fear but exasperation, and I did not think it would be difficult to be rid of him. I wanted the confrontation done and over with, and as a result I was not nearly so careful as I should have been.

I did not corner him – I would have let him keep watching me until Montpellier before losing him on the way out of the city. But he cornered me, on the deck during the night watch, behind the deckhouse and out of sight of the other sailors. His conversation, such as it was, was sufficient to assure me that he had not informed anyone else of my existence. Then he took out a knife.

I had been in so many street fights by that time that it was second nature to twist away from his strike and draw my own knife simultaneously. I manoeuvred him quickly. I would have to work fast, before we attracted attention.

I therefore backed away to the edge of the deck, forcing him to come after me. It was not much work to flip him over the railing.

We were in port at the time, at Cannes. There was a chance he might survive, though I would not have put money on it.

I did not look down to see if he rose. I was in fact a little unnerved. Another death by water. I fell backwards a few paces and cursed.

But it was the middle of the watch, and all those not on duty were sleeping; if I was quiet enough I might manage to get out without notice.

For of course I had to get out. I was lucky we were in port. The man’s disappearance would cause a stir. If I stayed on the boat my exact location would be known at all times, and I could not be sure no one would be watching. Even if I was not accused of his murder by my shipmates, others would know what to look for. God help me, I had once been thought of as a champion of justice, and now this!

Of course, I would not be thought of at all in future if I did not lose myself quickly. My belongings, other than my money, were in a locker somewhere below, but would get wet and likely ruined in the journey. There was nothing there I needed, anyway. I slipped around the deckhouse to the side of the boat closest to land.

It was difficult to force myself over the edge of the ship, but once I was in the water instinct luckily kicked in. I swam towards the lights, managing by sheer fortune not to veer into any streams from the bilges of ships or the sewers of the city. I was very close before I realized that I could not simply climb onto a dock, and would have to turn to the side.

When I finally dragged myself up I had little energy for anything other than falling behind the shelter of some boulders and sleeping on the sand, but it was nearly dawn by that point, so I was not unconscious for too long.

Upon waking I took better stock of my surroundings. No more than a mile out of town. Better to leave no trace of my presence in Cannes itself. I dealt with my appearance as well as possible, then headed in the opposite direction.

It would be much harder, finding replacements for my supplies outside of the city. It would be harder to pass without comment, except that I was less likely to be searched for in the countryside. It would be harder to find somewhere decent to sleep, and with winter coming on harder to find work as well. I should go to a city, any city. But they were the first places I would be looked for. How hideous this whole situation was.

I supposed that if I were so tired of being chased, Moran might be as well. But he had only had me after him, and for great stretches of that time I had been unable to pursue him. No, if he was frustrated it would be the frustration of a cat that has been watching a mouse-hole for hours with no result, a hunter deprived of his rightful prey. He had been able to convince the remainder of Moriarty’s men to chase after me – he had commanded all of the leftover might of a great organization, and he had not got me. It was something to be proud of, even if it had been achieved primarily by running away.

Well. I would make Moran feel differently. That was surely within my powers, now that it was down to just us two. If he was in London, and unable to find a source of income other than crooked card playing, then he must have lost control of any power he had had in the past few years. I simply had to be sure I did not draw attention as I gathered sufficient information to catch him.

And to find a way to keep him, as well. My attempted murder was an unsatisfactory charge, dependant solely on my word against his. But surely something would come up.

This was rather uncharacteristically optimistic of me. I yanked my thoughts back to the immediate problem. After a longer walk than I wanted that early in the morning, I found a hamlet where I could buy food, and found myself faced with a difficulty I had not expected.

They spoke French. Of course they did. And I replied to them automatically in my grandmother’s language, and was smiled at, as a fellow-countryman if not a local. The village was built like a thousand I had seen before. The fields lined the road, yellow and brown with late autumn’s stubble, but it was a familiar brown, not the brownish-grey of sand or rock.

Europe, and a language I had known since I was a child. It had been more than two years since I had seen or heard either. I was struck rather hard by emotion, and I was not even back home yet. It was very hard to hide.

I slept in a room over the store, rented from the kind, smiling proprietress who had said I must be from Avignon. It made me a little dizzy, being accepted at once without putting any effort into a persona. I stayed a night longer than I meant to.

Then it was a matter of direction. London, God, I wanted London. Paris would do almost as well. It would also be ridiculously obvious. Avignon was tempting, now, but too close.

The boat had been going to Montpellier. I had not intended to stay there long, for even without anyone following me it would not have been too hard to determine which boat I was on. But my absence from the craft would be noticed at once, now, and even more so in a few days when it reached port.

Why _not_ Montpellier, then? I would arrive long after the boat had been forgotten. Moran knew there was nothing of interest to me there. His spies, if any, would hardly think it a likely refuge – my liking for large cities was well known. And there was interesting work being done in the new _Institut de chimie_. I could find a position working in a lab – washing glassware if nothing else – and use it to catch my breath while I waited for word from Mycroft. Good enough.

But to get to Montpellier I had to cross the south of France.

The villages were tiny and widely separated, and half of them spoke a sort of bastard _patois_ , and no French at all. I made my way through towns and parishes and strange little _communes_ , trying not to draw attention though many of the villagers I came across had never before seen a foreigner, or anyone from more than twenty miles away. It was deeply trying to the mind, and even the strongest nerves would have been strained after the last few years.

No doubt I should have thought it better than Tibet, and certainly in terms of physical comfort and ease of passage it was. But to be so close to home and still so far from it weighed on my mind.

I was practised in not thinking of such matters, though. I was practised in not even thinking of myself as Sherlock Holmes any longer. I had had a score of names in two and a half years, a dozen nationalities. By this point I slipped and thought of myself as English only very rarely. In France, before Montpellier, it only happened once.

I had found my way to some town named, like a dozen other towns in France, Châteauneuf. I had a little money, though not as much as I would have liked. The inn was full enough to hide in for a time, and my mind was gently filled by the conversations and shuffling and the utterly terrible fiddler. I ordered as much food as I could afford while still having the hope of a night there, which wasn’t much.

People shifted before me, men and women floating in and out of the room. Their footsteps seemed to follow the music, which unfortunately was something I knew, winding itself into my head. _Aupres de ma blonde..._

I had eaten without noticing. Good. The room was still peopled, though perhaps less so. I should enquire about a room upstairs. _Qui chante pour les filles quis n’ont point de mari..._

So many people, and they all seemed to know each other, which was safe. But how could I know? Any one of them might be looking for me ... perhaps one of Moriarty’s men had had a cousin in Châteauneuf. _Il est dans la Hollande, les Hollandais l’ont pris..._

_La Hollande_. I hadn’t been there yet, one of the few places in Europe where that was true. It meant a prisoner, of course, kept from returning. That I knew very well. _Aupres de ma blonde, qu’il fait bon dormir!_ That would be lovely. _Aupres de mon homme..._ But he wasn’t mine anymore, had not been for years. _Il est dans l’Angleterre..._

The song filled my head slowly, pushing away all other sound, then thought, then, slowly, vision as well. The room blurred into warm arms and blond hair and blue eyes...

_“Hé, monsieur, vous ne pouvez pas dormir ici!”_

I jumped. _“Pardon?”_

_“Il faut louer une chambre. Réveille-toi, ivrogne.”_

_“Je ne suis pas ivre,”_ I said, before realizing drunkenness was a perfect excuse. Well, likely he wouldn’t believe me.

But I could not stay. How long had I been asleep? The room was much emptier. Anyone could have seen me, be waiting for me, and I would have no idea. _“Pas de chambre,”_ I said. _“Combien pour le repas?”_

He told me, and I paid him and then wandered out into the street. It was cold, and damp, and I had little money and there were no other inns in the village.

I would be sleeping in a hedgerow or a barn, then, in the rain. I blasphemed, French being a good language for it. It did not improve matters, or even my state of mind.

No other option. I turned away from the centre of town and headed out. I’d slept under hedges before this.

But I hadn’t liked it, and _sacre dieu_ I was tired. I wanted to be home, but I had had no home for three years. I wanted Baker Street, which was doubtless now rented to someone else, and I forgotten there. I wanted Watson...

I should never have even begun to think of him. He was in England, and married, and when I returned – there was only Moran, now, I told myself, I _would_ return – he would either hate me or have forgotten me, and either would be justified.

I should never have even begun to think of him.

No option but hedgerows, I told myself, beginning to scan the field around me. I turned abruptly away from the lane and towards a bare line of thicker undergrowth between two fields. In January such places did not provide much shelter, and it was cold as a marble vault, but thankfully almost as soon as I lay down I was asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone can correct my French, please do!
> 
> The song at the end can be found [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xa3i4NqoF1o).


End file.
